The Disappearance of Dr Beavers- Chapter 1

 It all started when Nurse Quincy lost a bet to a fellow nurse. A silly bet—but we’ll get to that. The punishment was simple: she had to work a full shift with Dr. Beavers.

The rest of the nurses were delighted. Opportunities to one-up Quincy didn’t come often, and they weren’t about to waste this one.

Don’t get me wrong—Quincy was well-liked, in the same way people like broccoli or a good pair of scissors: undeniably useful, quietly underappreciated, and just a little easy to resent.

Which brings us to Dr. Beavers. He was a numbers guy.  Administrators loved doctors who stacked their patient lists.  Beavers showed up on time, and like a tornado, he tore through his daily list, leaving behind bewildered or at times hair- on- end patients—a trait that might remind you of Bugs Bunny. But the similarity ended there. He lacked the cunning, the sarcasm, and certainly the quick wit. Like Bugs Bunny, he was quick to retreat from areas of brewing conflict. Another reason, his disappearance was puzzling.

Quincy, on the other hand, was reliably generous with her trademark scowls.

Still, anyone who knew them both would say the same thing: Quincy got the job done. Beavers’ unshakable calm came not from confidence, but from a remarkable inability to notice the storm clouds gathering around him.

Anyone who thinks that being oblivious is a handicap for a doctor would be right. Yet Dr. Beavers had achieved “success” at a young age and was, in fact, the clinic’s lead physician. But as he was soon to discover, his rise came with a series of falls, each steeper than the last.

This clinic was unique—not because of high cure rates, affordable health care, or short wait times. It was unique because of a phenomenon the health system administration called Net Zero: for six straight years, no physician had been hired, and neither of the two doctors had left.

“Unheard of in the twenty-first century,” boasted Mr. RASH, the head honcho of the system. His real name was long, but he intensely disliked titles like CEO or COO. To him, they lacked panache and failed to capture the swagger of his remarkable work. So he renamed his role “Rock Star Administrator of Hospitals.”

The nurses, with their inbuilt genius for alphabet soups—SBAR, I-PASS, AIDET—pounced on this with delight. Behind his back, they whispered: Mr. RASH is here.

And Mr. RASH was the last person to see Dr. Beavers alive.

On that fateful morning, Quincy arrived at the clinic at 6 a.m. sharp. Adept at multitasking, she sipped her cold coffee while brooding and vengefully grinding any ice cube that dared climb the oversized straw. She paced the empty clinic, re-enacting Lamaze classes from two decades ago.

“I’ll kill Beavers if he does to me what he did to Siri,” she growled. Fernand Lamaze’s spirit beat a hasty retreat.

Quincy was referring to Beavers’ regular nurse, Siri, who was out on medical leave for uncontrolled smiling—the only way she knew how to cope with mounting stress.

Then Quincy's face broke into a sardonic grin  when she remembered how she got out of jury duty a week prior.

Dr. Beavers’ disappearance caused a furor. Work nearly ground to a halt. All the physician duties fell on the shoulders of the clinic’s only remaining doctor: Dr. Joy.”

Of thrumming silhouettes

 The city's silhouette thrummed ever so slightly to the rhythm of its bustling life.

Goals for 2026

 I have just one goal this year: not to have a firm opinion about anything. This will allow me to handle life with grace and equanimity.  To accept that those who would have evoked in me sentiments such as anger, irritation, or even contempt, are just that way. Their ignorance should not make me feel anything. Not annoyance, or disgust. 

I will remember grace and equanimity for 2026 as my mantra. I give myself up to 3 misses in 2026. That's a tall order.

About tiny fingers

 Trigger warning: Not an article for those who have visceral reactions to the mention of medical terms, body parts or weird smells.

Many years ago, I did a rectal exam on a patient who was admitted with rectal bleeding. Later his nurse told me that the patient said, " Thank God she has tiny fingers."

" That's a plus point of being tiny," I replied with a laugh.

But it triggered a memory from the time I had graduated high school.  My tiny fingers stood between me and my musical aspirations.

I wanted to learn the violin. My music teacher, a professional violinist said no. Your fingers are too small.

What about a piano, I asked.

Do you have a piano with at least three octaves, he asked me?

No. 

I was downcast. I had barely convinced my dad to allow me to learn music. He would not pay up for a piano. Not because he could not afford it, but because he believed that spending money on anything other than books and food was a waste of money.

So my music teacher and I settled on the guitar. After learning the guitar for five years, my teacher wanted me to learn a second instrument. The violin, he said.

I looked at my fingers in amazement. Did they grow longer at 23 years of age?

I reminded him of his concerns five years ago. He was wishy washy. Or maybe it was a memory issue. 

Either way, I moved to a different city for more medical training. And that was the end of music lessons. Later my teacher died of sudden liver failure. 

Fast forward a quarter of a century later, I take care of patients with cancer including rectal cancer.

There is a saying where I come from ( Kerala, India) : " A good doctor's touch can heal many a wound".

When some of my patients achieved what we call a complete pathological response ( no cancer found at the time of surgery after receiving chemo or radiation or both), I told my nurse, " It must  be the touch of the tiny fingers".

She laughed out loud.

Descriptive writing

 Word painting by Rebecca Maclanahan

1. Descriptive writing must be:

-sensory

-concise, focus on the musical quality of the language

- creating movement in the context of the story: things in a state of activity

- use of figurative speech

-has to serve the larger piece, therefore the description has to be effective 

2. Evoke all 5 senses

The simple act of boiling milk

I have a friend who loves gadgets. Her kitchen is a mini showroom for Amazon products. She once told me that she purchased an automatic milk boiler to eliminate the distress of spilled milk on the burner.

It got me thinking. It's true. No one likes to clean up the singed residue of what was once the decadent, frothy richness of a bowl of milk. And why? Spilled milk reminds us of what we lack and what we often refuse to acquire: the will to be in the moment.

If there is one act that teaches us mindfulness, it is boiling milk. We have to be fully present, constantly stirring the pan, adjusting the heat, and knowing when to turn the flame off.  

But first things first. Let's start with choosing the vessel. Steel vessels have monopolized the traditional market as the gold-standard milk boiler. Most homes in India, except the ones that have opted for an automatic milk boiler, have a dedicated steel vessel exclusively for this purpose. While non-stick pans or even clay pots may be considered, milk and steel are naturally paired. 

Here's why. There is something reassuring in observing a steely yet shiny vessel restrain an opaque mass of milk as it progressively simmers to boiling point.  The distinct aroma that emanates and settles on the olfactory nerves does not impact impervious steel. 

Let me digress for a moment to the memory that springs alive from the remarkable redolence of a pot of bubbling milk on the rare occasion I choose to do so. It is the smell of my baby's toothless gums, freshly coated with warm milk. All the travails of a newborn's mother wash away in that moment. It was often the best part of my day when I inhaled a lungful of that gummy incense.

There's something innately maternal about boiling milk. In India, we address the cow as " go mata." "Go" stands for cow, and " Mata" for mother. Throughout this daily morning ritual in most homes, the matriarch of the house or the servant stands guard, stirring the pan lest a layer of charred milk sediment form at the base of the vessel. As with the spilled froth that cannot be salvaged, the thickened brown carpet at the base of a pan reminds one of one's lack of attention. The punishment: extra hard scrubbing at the tail end of the morning's pile of dishes.

At times, the act of stirring may seem counterproductive. Watching silently, you see tiny whirlpools of milk seething here and there. Then, with your steel ladle, you part the froth and stir as if to calm a geyser. The froth seems angry, but you remind yourself that it holds the best of the bowl.

You stay focused, noticing that the foci of hot springs disappear momentarily. This is the most dangerous moment. A ping on your phone, a loved one's plea to help discover their lost keys, socks, or tie tugs at your quintessential maternal cords. The greatest temptation at this point is to turn down the heat and address the distraction. And voila! Your return is marked by hissing, seething insurgence of the neglected milk as it tumbles down the edges of the hapless steel vessel that had been holding the fort until now. The flame has been partially or fully extinguished. The pungent, tarry scars of neglect are evident on a modern flame-free countertop. 

The greatest lesson to the negligent milk boiler is the mandatory wait before the mess can be cleaned up. Until then, your failure will be evident to everyone.  And for you to wallow in misery for the rest of the day. It was not the milk that tumbled headlong into the flame but the matriarch's veneer of competence.

In conclusion, the act of boiling milk is sacred. It is an act that cannot be coupled with any other. Nor is it one for a woman who prides herself on multitasking.   As with all relationships, there comes a point where the vessel cannot contain the agitation without a conscious effort to turn off the heat.

A good book on editing

 I read a good book with useful tips on editing

Cut it Out by Laura Swart

1. Avoiding too many little words that can clutter the main idea: identify content rich words, use sensory words, watch the punctuation, delete pompous and dull words. Combine long luxurious sentences with short punchy ones.

2.  Is, have and will: I am, they are, he is or she was, they have been

3. Avoid passive voice: look for "be" and "by"

4. Avoid progressive tense: "ing" unless required by the context. Use simple present and simple past tense.

5. Avoid repetition within paragraphs of key words or phrases

6. Avoid colloquialisms, choppy sentences, overloaded sentences, uncontrolled sentences and fragments.